Le Franco Phoney

After I survived the physical workout of cross-country skiing, and with a Christmas guest who didn’t want to ski, I went snowshoeing on a sunny, warm day in late December. Not just any old snow-shoeing. No. I went on a guided snowshoe walk. That sounds a bit posh, eh? I mean, how hard can it be to follow some tracks with tennis racquet-like things with sharp bits attached to your feet?

Our party of five included two people who had never used snow shoes before (including me). I imagined beautiful scenery, stopping regularly to look at natural elements like animal tracks, trees and views. My non-skiing visitor said her past experience with guides was basically that, and usually on flat terrain. Bonus for us, since we were still full on festive treats. Of course, we were wrong.

Snowshoes have three settings, so our guide checked we were all using the right one. She forgot to check our other vital equipment (ski poles), but I’ll get to that later. Off we trampled up a hill, zig-zagging and stopping to look at animal tracks, berries on a tree and a typical Savoyarde house. So far, so good. This continued for more than an hour, with the other beginner stopping often to catch her breath while the guide impatiently waited. We reached a plateau (pictured) just below the Tete du Danay lookout point (the mount in the background, just to the right of our group). The guide explained it would take another ten minutes to reach it or we could go back down. Now, check the size of the trees on that mound compared with the people in the foreground. There was no way it was just a ten minute walk. Also check how low the sun is in the sky. After a muted agreement to continue, I said I was worried we wouldn’t get back off the mountain in time before the sun set, and that it would take more than ten minutes, but the guide said that was ‘pas grave’ (not a problem). It was for me, but she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she made it clear that if one of us doesn’t want to go, none of us get to go. She guilted me into it.

The walk to the top took a further 30 minutes, with the slow girl stopping to complain every now and again, including to point out it had already been 15 minutes (to which the guide insisted she’d never said it would only be ten minutes). The guide steamed on ahead and was at the top before the slow girl, and the two of us behind her, had rounded the last few corners with steep edges. I should mention that I get vertigo. Vertigo is different to being afraid of heights. I have no problems getting on a chairlift! Vertigo involves dizziness at random times, and most definitely when there’s a steep decline nearby. If I look down on a chairlift, it happens. If I look at the horizon, I’m fine. Climbing these last few zig-zag corners before reaching the Tete du Danay was causing much dizziness. Since the guide had already made it clear that we all go or none of us go, and since she was out of sight entirely, I trudged up, heart beating through panic rather than exercise, trying to look away from the drop to one side. I even bullied the slow girl into not stopping until we reached the top, saying I’d mow her down in my escape from the dizzy area.

At the top, I explained to the guide that the last bit was not enjoyable for someone with vertigo. She told me I should have told her at the start, and of course she was right, but as the guide leading us, I’d expect her to ask the relevant questions at the start since I was expecting a relatively flat walk of maybe one or two hours. I’d also expect her to resist ploughing ahead so that she can’t see or hear more than half of her party! In her favour, she gave us all the most delicious tea, which made everything better.

The descent was hard work for the older lady whose ski poles had no baskets at the bottom. They were just big pointy poles that slid through the snow until they hit the ground deep underneath. She fell, and my immediate thought was that if she’d injured herself, it would soon be dark (although that was apparently ‘pas grave‘). The guide, who was hopefully aware that she should have checked everyone was properly equipped before setting off, gave the lady her poles and led the way with the pointy sticks. The few times she stopped to check that we were all there in the fading light, she stopped in areas with drops to one side which was certainly grave for someone with vertigo.

Not since the stupid walk last summer have I been so happy to see civilisation. More than three hours after we started, the air was cold, the light had faded, we had no torches, and all of us had had enough — including the guide, who I’m pretty sure will be happy if she never sees Vertigo Girl or Slow Girl again.

Don’t get me wrong: the walk itself was beautiful and the guide told us some interesting facts about the flora and fauna, but next time, I’ll go without the guide to avoid being guilted into going further, then having to speed-snowshoe home because of the fading light. And like cross-country skiing, I’ll only bother when the ski lifts have stopped running.

Pictured below is the map of where some crazy unranked skiers and snowboarders will be doing cool tricks and daring descents right here in La Clusaz tomorrow in the lead-up to the Radikal Mountain competition. Those who qualify will get to do it all again at the weekend further over on the l’Etale peak with some of the world’s upcoming freeride champions. After the Candide Invitational stopped a few years ago (although Candide Thovex still lives here and is still awe-inspiring to watch as he flings himself with ease over kickers at La Balme on random days), La Clusaz has struggled to come up with a worthy replacement. Evening jib sessions proved the most popular and accessible for locals and tourists alike, but last year’s Radikal Mountain was a major let-down — mostly due to the lack of snow. Although it was probably more challenging for the riders and perhaps more likely to show who can really ski in any conditions, its position on a peak near l’Etale made viewing a bit difficult. As the map below shows, this year’s qualifying competition will take place up at La Balme, in the Torchere valley, allowing a better view of the action. It’s a pity the final competition isn’t taking place there too.

With more than two metres of snow at the altitude of the competition (and even more up higher!), the whole area has turned into a winter sports haven for all of us. No new snow is predicted for the weekend which is unfortunate, but with so much snow already there, the competition is already likely to be ten times more interesting than last year. You’ll find me camped out nearby with a sandwich and some awe.

One of the most noticeable and amusing things about living in the French Alps is how quickly conversation turns to snow when winter approaches. Months before the resort is due to open, people start predicting what sort of season it will be based on everything from long-term weather forecasts to how abundant the berries are on the trees in the mountains. I’m as guilty as the next person.

This year got off to a slow start with a very warm and dry autumn, causing the annual ski test at Le Grand Bornand, held before the official opening of the resort, to be cancelled. Nobody could talk about much else apart from when the snow was due to fall.

Finally, about ten days ago, the snow fell. Conversation went from ‘when’ to ‘how much’ and ‘how low’, with rain washing away the first dump of fresh snow on the lower pistes. Resorts all over the Alps opened on the weekend with eager skiers lining up. I was one of them, queuing at the La Balme area of La Clusaz, and at first tempted to stay on the piste to avoid the rocks hiding under what we all suspected to be the usual early-season flimsy layer of powder off-piste. All that changed yesterday when I hit some rock gardens on the piste. Even at an altitude of 2,600 metres, the rocks were poking through. Nicely hidden behind the steepness of the slope and on a narrow part of the piste, I heard my new skis crunch over the rocks like a train chugging along a track. I ventured off-piste instead. Result! Just one rock obscured my fresh tracks.

What a dire start the season eh? No, not really. The resort isn’t even due to open until 17th December! I’m happy that the snow is back (and indeed it’s dumping down right now, although rain is expected later in the week), but I wonder if the early opening was perhaps more for marketing or pressure to open prematurely. The pistes are patchy, and worryingly, the barrier at the top of La Balme that prevents people from sliding over the edge to their death has not been fully raised yet, leaving just the lower orange netting to waist height only. Falling over it would not be difficult. Pictured is how it normally looks. Those big zig-zag ropes attaching to the higher horizontal black rope to keep everything taut are not yet there and the orange netting is kind of hangy.

Anyway, enough about health and safety: I need to get back to talking about snow with my friends.

I’ve ranted before about the ridiculous amount of paperwork in France, but I never expected it to impinge on the simple act of getting some snow tyres fitted to a car. You’d think it’d be as simple as going to a tyre shop, asking for some snow tyres, and having them fit them, but no. A friend of mine has a Renault Kangoo which resembles what we’d called a panel van in Australia: front seats only and a large, flat back suitable for carrying all sorts of big objects, although he mostly uses it for carting around his shopping. I drove down to Annecy with him so he could cart my shopping around after sorting out some new tyres. End result? No time for shopping and no snow tyres. Here’s a quick run-down:

Shop 1: “No, we don’t stock those tyres. You need commercial tyres because you don’t have back seats. We don’t stock them.”

Shop 2: ‘Those commercial tyres always sell out early. You won’t find them now. We can sell you the non-commercial tyres and put them on your wheels, but we can’t mount your wheels back on your car because you should have the commercial tyres. You’re welcome to jack up your car and remount your wheels in our forecourt once we’ve put the tyres on your wheels.”

Shop 3: “We’ll check out the back.” (30 minutes later): “No we don’t have any. We can order the commercial tyres in for you. They cost more than double the standard tyres. You’re missing a code on your car registration papers. Go to Renault because you might be able to get the standard tyres if you get those numbers added.”

Renault: “That’s very odd that you don’t have those details. I’ll check with my supervisor” (10 minutes later): “We can’t give you your car’s details. You need to go to the prefecture (car registration office, which is a depressing place), although since it’s late afternoon, they are closed. They are only open in the mornings, and they’re closed entirely at least one day during the week but I forget which day. Good luck.”

At this point, my friend gave up and we drove home as the day faded into night, having achieved nothing but a feeling of defeat.

But part of living in France is about embracing this paper trail and using it your advantage. My friend took his car to the local garage that passed his car for its two-yearly check-up recently, and it seems that they didn’t need the missing code in order to fit standard tyres.

The moral of this story? Don’t waste your time, effort and stress on official processes: it’s just not the French way.

That there is a giant Lindt Easter bunny, chained safely to the top of the Täsch train terminal in Switzerland to prevent me from attacking the ears just in case there’s chocolate inside.

As you can see by the name of the train station, I was in Zermatt last weekend, and this station is the last one before Zermatt where you must leave your car, since no cars are allowed in Zermatt itself (apart from small electric cars and buses which people must have hard-to-get permits for). Although excited to go skiing in the fresh powder on the Italian side of Cervino the following day, being welcomed by a giant bunny was a great start to the weekend.

The desperate last ski of the season turned out pretty well, with the sun shining on Sunday and few people on the hill after Saturday’s snow fall, allowing us to take fresh tracks off-piste for most of the day before heading out to more of the many closing parties in town that weekend.

Of course, getting to Zermatt is a bit of a faff unless you arrive by helicopter, with the closest airport being Geneva, four hours away. By car, it took our convoy around the same time from St Jean de Sixt to the Täsch train station, followed by the car parking, car park paying, car unpacking, luggage lugging, train ticket buying, train waiting, train travel, and then travel to accommodation. Driving directly there would have saved a lot of hassle. But this is Zermatt, the holiday home of the rich and famous who do often arrive by helicopter — and the rest of us who just want some decent snow.

Pictured is a bizarre racing track that has since been demolished in Méribel, which I snapped from my view on a chairlift on Sunday. It was part of the World Cup race for telemarkers, which involved the usual flag poles for the racers to turn by, with a jump half way through, then this big dome for them to loop around, followed by some skating on the flat area behind this dome before finally reaching the finish line just in front of the dome. The racers face back towards the mountain they’ve just come from. It was an interesting race to watch, but a bit difficult for the spectators to see the dome part, as you can see by the empty area behind the red fence to the left of the dome. The skating behind the dome went right by the spectators, who made lots of noise for any French racer, particularly the local ones, and went almost completely silent for anyone else. By 3.30pm, when the racing was all over, the pistes bashers were flattening the dome.

Having just one day to catch up with friends in Méribel and hit the (surprisingly well-maintained after a month of no fresh snow) pistes, I missed the end of the race and the prize-giving ceremony. However, I did get lots of telemarking advice from the lovely Roddy (who telemarks just as well switch as he does going forward), saw some table-top dancing at one of the piste-side restaurants, and sampled the delicious food from The Den, which used to be Pizza Express. The snow is great in Méribel at the moment, with the pistes covered with man-made snow and this week’s high temperatures likely to make the pistes as slushy as April conditions, pleasing many snowboarders who have had to contend with rock-hard ice for the past month. The sun is so warm, in fact, that I wonder if La Clusaz will have many pistes open by the end of the week. Will winter return before spring takes over?

Every winter, La Clusaz advertises moonlit skiing if there’s a full moon. When the conditions are right, it’s good fun. Take this photo from a few years ago as an example. It was warm enough to take lots of photos, including this one of my friend, Lilly, while some loon danced next to her. We were at one of the four pubs that run down the ski piste (le Cret du Merle) that was open that year, drinking mulled wine, playing with the flashing lights handed out for free and listening to music by the warm fire while overlooking the village of La Clusaz with all its lights below. It was glorious.

This required a number of factors including:

1. A clear sky so the moon creates enough light for skiing
2. A well-groomed piste so there are no surprise jumps in the dark
3. Temperate weather

Okay, the temperate weather is not a requirement, but the other two really are. Last year, at least one moonlit ski was cancelled due to no clear sky, but this year, the moon was out and everyone rejoiced. However, the weather was freezing cold (way below zero), and as soon as I stepped outside, I felt the heat my lips and cheeks disappear. With such cold weather, the pistes could only be icy, and with so little snow since December, quite patchy and rocky too.

The pub, with a live band playing to celebrate the moonlit skiing event, seemed like a much more attractive option. With the piste ending next to the pub, I watched a snowboarder attempt to get down the last twenty metres. Sections of the piste were shining like an ice rink, and the whole lot was as hard as a rock. This guy couldn’t stand up for more than one second before his board would slide from under him again. I watched him fall three times consecutively, with his snowboard making that ‘shhhhhhhhrrrrrrkkkk’ sound (the ‘kkkk’ being his rump hitting the ice). As I walked to the pub, I heard that sound another two times. He was still less than half way down.

It’s such a shame that the weather was so cold and the pistes lacking snow for such a great event. The real enjoyment comes not so much the skiing at night (one run and the novelty has worn off), but from stopping in at each pub, listening to DJs or live bands and sipping something hot while chatting with strangers and friends alike. I’m already looking forward to the next one and keeping my fingers crossed for better conditions.

January is traditionally a quiet month on the slopes in the French Alps: school holidays are over and everyone is recovering financially from Christmas, leaving the mountain to the locals and the seasonnaires to play on as a result of all their hard work in December, when staff often get no days off for weeks or work very long days. To compare the two months quickly, the tailback of cars in La Clusaz at the end of the day can last for around two hours as the stream of traffic from La Balme meets the stream from l’Etale, and then they both hit town and meet more traffic, and the snake continues down through St Jean de Sixt. In January, it’s third gear all the way through with few cars on the road.

However, last weekend, La Clusaz went from quiet to car carnage due to three different events being held — each appealing to different audiences. Over at l’Etale, the Radikal Mountain event was being held, where freeride skiers bomb down cliff-faces, jumping metres of rock in the process, to a panel of judges below. Also at l’Etale, on the racing piste just next to the freeride event, were kids from all over the region competing in a slalom event. That meant parents and lots of cars in the already overflowing car park full of Radikal Mountain media vans. Meanwhile, no wonder the display for the La Balme car park said “FULL”: the lower car park had turned into a tent city with snowboard companies showing off their 2012 stock for industry workers to test as part of the Snow Avant Premiere event.

So, on the weekend, we had cool dude skiers, their fans and media people, plus a huge influx of kids and parents and all the staff required for a slalom event, as well as every snowboarder who works in a ski shop in a 200km or more radius! Also add in the usual weekend crowd from Annecy, bolstered by the sunny, spring-like weather. The result? A snake of cars from all directions trying to get out of La Clusaz at the end of the day.

If I saw any of the benefits of any of these events, I wouldn’t mind so much, but the Radikal Mountain day-time event is so distant it’s like watching an ant, the racing kids filled the snack bar I was in and made a racket, and the snowboard event is only open to shop workers. Radikal Mountain did also have a freestyle jib session in town on Saturday night, but it’s stupidly early at 7pm, so by the time we got there after dinner, the whole thing was over, and of course, the pub nearby, which was rammed, including a heated outdoor area, was only for invited people. The bouncer pointed us to the ‘bar’ (a black stand with a keg of beer and a man looking bored) for the public: apparently, we’re meant to enjoy drinking alone in the cold with no outdoor heaters and in full view of the cool dudes who are nice and warm. The four of us shrugged and walked away. La Clusaz, can you make things a bit more public — or at least spread out — next year?

Pictured is a plastic contraption, dating back to 1983, that a friend found when cleaning out her chalet. I loved it, and she kindly gave it to me. It’s the most curious map I’ve ever seen. Yes, it’s a map. The little yellow handle pulls out to display a map (shown below).

This funky little device lists each of the pistes on the back of the map, and curls up like a tape measure as soon as you let go of the yellow handle.

But what’s with the design? I’ll give you a hint. The plastic is made especially for taking onto the hill when you’re out skiing, and the yellow plastic handle is easy to grab with gloves on. The plastic helps with keeping the map dry. The hollow area is used to attach the map.

Have you figured it out yet? It’s meant to clamp onto your ski pole. This was no doubt a big hit with gadget-lovers who still use those little plastic pole connectors to keep their poles together when not in use (how utterly pointless!), I’ve tested it on my own ski pole and it works! Snap it on at the bottom and drag it up to the top, where it sits, waiting for someone to pull the yellow handle.

Meanwhile, a closer look at the map reveals a few interesting things about La Clusaz. Below is a zoomed in section of the map. If you know La Clusaz, you’ll notice that the Fernuy telecabine is missing altogether. Getting back to town from La Balme would have involved taking one of the green pistes pictured in at the bottom left of the map above. The runs at l’Etale have changed a lot, with only two of the drag lifts still existing there. The old telepherique (number 30) has been replaced with a telemix (chairlifts with a few telecabines thrown in for novelty), and the chairlift to the top (31) replaced with a faster model. And Croix Fry, the little peak at the right of the image below, has no lifts at all! This is the entire Manigod ski area of Croix Fry and Manigod, which is now extensive enough to support its own ski school branch.

The locals will no doubt shrug if they read this: they’ve seen the changes and probably had the blue plastic contraptions as piste maps on their poles at some point, but as a non-local, I find it fascinating to take a glimpse into the past from a gadget dating back to 1983. Do you? Or is it just me?

Yes, there’s a brand of ski called Heidi Ski and they come from Switzerland. I tried some out at last weekend’s ski test held in Le Grand Bornand just up the road and I was really impressed. Despite the off-piste model being only 80mm across the centre, these babies floated nicely and with such a narrow waist, turned off piste like no other pair of ski I tried all day. I should point out, however, that I’d never really skied off-piste before – that’s what I’ve used my snowboard for. This year was going to be the year, and Heidi Ski were looking like my ski of choice. Aren’t the graphics lovely too? You don’t want to buy a pair of skis with horrible graphics, do you. I remember once asking a snowboard instructor friend what my next snowboard should be and his reply was: “The one with the nicest graphics,” so I’m pretty sure it’s not just me that looks at the graphics as well as the performance of the ski.

Other favourites were the Dynastar Legend Sultan 80s for on the piste (I’m pleased about this, as I’ve bought a pair to use for telemarking which I’m still learning how to do), Movement Black Rose for both on-piste and off-piste (and lovely sparkly-in-sun purpleness), and the Salomon S7s fo, r off-piste (although sadly I’m not that good off-piste yet to use them the way they deserve), but I came home and Googled Heidi Ski. I wanted a pair of Heidi Skis…until I saw the price. There’s no way I can afford those beauties no matter how lovely they were, and so the hunt for a new pair of skis continues.

Apologies if this post sounded a bit “me me me”: the beautiful snow of the French Alps is what motivated me to live in France in the first place. I’m passionate about the snow and winter sports, so sometimes I can’t help myself but write about it all. Back to French observations next time.